


we use such small words, for feelings so enormous

by majesdane



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-18
Updated: 2009-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There are lots of things I love about you, actually."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	we use such small words, for feelings so enormous

  
It is a risk to love. What if it doesn't work out?  
Ah, but what if it does.  
\-- Peter McWilliams

 

 

 

It can't last.

It's not that she doesn't want to and she knows it won't be for a lack of trying. But she doesn't think it can last. They say that the magic of our first love is the idea that it can never end; she's more afraid of losing it before she has a chance to even be that ignorant. She wishes that when she woke up every morning, sometimes to Naomi's lips on hers or a hand sliding along her thigh or in the vast emptiness of space that her own bed has become, she didn't feel like this, as if there's not enough air in the room and there's a weight crushing her chest. She wonders what it's like, to not wake up like that, to be blissfully ignorant and unaware.

Naomi asks her what's wrong; she can't say. There's too much bottled up inside her and she works so hard to keep the words from spilling out of her mouth. What would she say, anyway? She can't explain the way she feels, the paralyzing fear of losing everything she worked so hard to win in the first place. (It's not that Naomi is a prize, but Emily likes to think she's won her heart.) There's just uncertainty, too damn much of it, and it makes her feel sick and dizzy.

She would like to tell Naomi, if she was able, about the way her heart clenches up just thinking of the end of this, of no more lazy Saturday afternoons spent in the eternity that is Naomi's bed and arms or the way Naomi's eyes flutter close when Emily kisses the space below her ear.

If this ever ends, she'll remember everything; she's made sure to measure every curve of Naomi's body, her hips, her shoulders, the swell of her breasts. She knows (or at least thinks she does) the color of Naomi's eyes, always a brilliant and persistent blue. And Naomi's peroxide hair, the way it curls at the end when it dries, if she doesn't bother to blow dry it.

She likes to kiss the space below Naomi's ear, when they fall asleep in the afternoon sunlight of Naomi's bed, half-dressed. She likes waking up first, being able to watch Naomi, the way she looks when she sleeps, so quiet and peaceful, so very different that how she normally is. Sometimes she wakes Naomi up with soft kisses and other times with her hand between Naomi's legs, stroking gently, her mouth on Naomi's neck. She looks beautiful either way, the way she stirs, how her eyes flutter slowly open.

She could write a book about it, the way Naomi looks; she wants to record all of this, so that she can remember just how Naomi looked during every moment of each minute of all the days they have. It's not as though she's keeping count, of the time they've shared together, but she can't help but be afraid that it's slowly running down, that there is only so much more time left.

 

;;

 

"I love you, " Naomi sighs, after they've made love, her face still flushed.

The taste of her is still strong in Emily's mouth when she kisses her, tongue brushing against Naomi's bottom lip. She doesn't think that she needs to say it, because she's sure Naomi already knows anyway, but she murmurs "I love you too," against Naomi's lips, just in case. And Naomi smiles in that soft and sleepy way of hers, reaches up and strokes Emily's hair in such a gentle way that Emily feels like crying.

"Say it again, please," Emily says quietly, after a time, and Naomi does, punctuating each word with a soft kiss. It's not that she doesn't know without being told, it's just that she likes hearing Naomi say it, is fairly certain that she'll never get tired of hearing it. It sounds so different when Naomi says it, so much more different than Emily had ever imagined, on nights when she'd lie in bed, lips still tingling from drunken kisses stolen in dark corners of clubs.

She loves Naomi's voice, every tone and pitch, the accent and stress of each word and syllable, how sometimes when she cries out softly when they're making love and the sound is one of the most beautiful things she has ever heard. She strokes the underside of Naomi's breast, drags her nails lightly down across the flat plane of Naomi's stomach and even further still. Naomi moans quietly and tips her head back as Emily kisses her neck and her fingers trail along the curve of Naomi's hip, the inside of her thigh; Naomi parts her legs further to give Emily greater purchase.

And Naomi says it again, straining, on the cusp of orgasm, and later, panting and flushed and sweaty, tangling her fingers in Emily's hair and kissing her with reckless abandon, and Emily thinks it's wonder that she can even speak.

(She feels rather breathless herself, as if every part of Naomi is a part of her, that Naomi's kisses steal more than just her heart away, but her words and thoughts and air as well, and she thinks perhaps she's being too poetic, but this is what Naomi does to her, makes her think of the most beautifully flowery things.)

Later, she says, "I've always loved you, you know. Ever since I first saw you, with your beautiful blue eyes and navy tie and skirt and you, you with that ridiculous bag."

Naomi doesn't answer, of course, sound asleep beside her. Emily presses soft kisses along Naomi's back, wraps an arm loosely around her waist, nuzzling against her.

 

;;

 

She likes to lie in bed, reclining back on the pillows as she watches Naomi dress, sliding cherry red knickers up the length of her impossibly long legs, refastening a faded blue bra; it doesn't match at all and it makes Emily grin.

"Pervy," Naomi teases gently, smiling as she sees Emily watching her in the mirror.

Emily smiles as well, says, "I can't help it; I just love looking at you." A pause, then, quieter, "There are a lot of things I love about you, actually. Everything, everything."

Naomi turns, crawls back into bed with her, sliding under copper-colored blankets and raspberry sheets, wrapping her arms around Emily and kissing her forehead. She lays her head on Emily's chest; Emily presses a kiss to the top of her head, likes how her hair smells faintly of the kiwi scented shampoo she uses, says, "We should be getting up soon."

"I want to spend the day here," Naomi sighs, strokes patterns on Emily's stomach with delicate fingers, nails painted pale pink.

"Then let's do it," Emily murmurs, trails her fingers along Naomi's arm, shoulder to wrist and then back up. "Let's just stay like this forever."

Naomi kisses the top of Emily's breast, the gentle curve of it. "I'd like that very much."

"Me too," Emily says, brushes the hair out of Naomi's eyes. If only, if only.

 

;;

 

Katie says, "You need to spend more time at home; I can't keep covering for you, you know," in such an easy, nonchalant way, as if she's suddenly okay with everything. It scares Emily a little, to think that she may be, because she's still so unsure of this herself.

She can't bear the emptiness of her own bed; her arms feel so strange to her like this, without being able to hold Naomi when they both drift off to sleep. She turns, presses her face against her pillow, but the washing powder her mum uses is different from the one Naomi's mum does; it's stronger, smells more like bleach and not at all like the beach, like Naomi's.

 

;;

 

They say that swans mate for life; she wishes they could be swans.

She could never live a life that short, but sometimes she's jealous of the insects that live for only a day, that are born and mate and die in quick succession; they experience a lifetime of passion. She thinks about that, about them as mayflies, and maybe it'd be a comfort to live a life that short; you wouldn't have time to experience fear or doubt or heartbreak.

Naomi kisses her, puts their foreheads together when they break apart, smiling, whispers "I love you," almost too soft to hear. Emily thinks of swans, how together, their necks form a heart.

 

;;

 

When they kiss, Naomi tastes like strawberry bubblegum and cigarettes and sometimes coffee, if they kiss in the morning after breakfast before Naomi's gotten the chance to brush her teeth.

They don't need to be secret about it, not here, but they hold hands under the kitchen table anyway, when they eat breakfast together with Naomi's mum. Naomi's fingers brush gently over the back of Emily's hand, her knuckles, and sometimes she has to close her eyes and count to ten, try and calm her racing heart, because it's much too much, even like this; Naomi's touch is too gentle and too sweet.

It's enough to break her.

 

;;

 

It happens at the oddest of times: her, in the shower, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair; in the kitchen with Katie and their mum, cutting up vegetables for dinner; curled up next to Naomi on the couch, watching re-runs of _Desperate Housewives_ , because nothing else is on. It's at times like these when she feels herself gripped by some sort of paralyzing fear, the kind of fear that makes her unable to breathe, the kind that twists her heart into tight (too tight, too tight) knots.

And then Naomi says one day, on one of those lazy Wednesday mornings when neither of them can be bothered with getting up, because it's raining out anyway, "I don't care, you know, about what happened."

It takes Emily a moment to figure out what Naomi's talking about; she says it in such an off-hand way, kisses her in quick chaste way after she says it. She rolls over onto her stomach and Emily pauses, leans in and presses her lips to Naomi's shoulder, wishes she could say something, comes up with, "I love you."

Naomi sighs, rolls back over, kisses her, pins her back against the bed.

They make love incredibly slowly, slower than they've ever done before. Naomi kisses her, drags her tongue along the curve and swell of Emily's breasts, trails kisses down her stomach, the inside of her thighs. She moves back up, sucks on a spot on Emily's neck until blood rises to the surface, presses one, then two, fingers inside her, works them in and out as slowly as either of them can manage, does so until Emily can't bear it any longer; shaking, she threads her fingers through Naomi's hair, pulls her head down and whispers _please_ in her ear, desperate.

Afterward, in the shower, Naomi cups Emily's face in her hands, kisses her gently, the water falling all around them like rain.

 

;;

 

"Do you ever worry," she asks once, when they're lying on the grass in Naomi's garden, a half-empty bottle of wine lying off to the side, forgotten, "worry that things won't last?"

Naomi doesn't say a word, not at first, her hand seeking out Emily's, fingers threading together. They lie like that for some time before Naomi says, slowly, like this is something she wants to get right, "No. No, I don't. It ruins whatever it is you're worried about losing."

She starts to cry and she's not even sure why that is, is just aware of Naomi sitting up, pulling Emily up into her arms, kissing away her tears. She clings to her, Naomi, buries her face against Naomi's shoulder, knits her fingers in Naomi's powder blue sweatshirt to pull her in even closer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she murmurs, again and again, and she's only half-aware of what it is she's apologizing for, but Naomi doesn't ask for any explanations, just kisses her forehead, strokes her hair, stays quiet. It's only then how acutely aware she is of Naomi loving her. That Naomi _loves_ her.

 

;;

 

Later, in bed, Naomi kisses her sleepily, tastes like strawberry bubblegum and cigarettes and wine. It's so soft and simple and delicate; it makes her feel like a moth that's reached the moon.

They could be swans, maybe.


End file.
